As is appropriate for such a theme, my Bibliotheca clutter post comes a day (well, three) late and a dollar short. As such, and out of an abundance of irony, I've tried to keep the post itself well-organized.
Despite being a librarian, I've always been surrounded by clutter: books, sheet music, half-finished crafts, and snacks seem to flock to me like ants to dropped soft-serve. Lolita, as a collecting hobby, is full of dangerous temptation for me-- because every outfit is supported by a full complement of accessories, the near-addictive accumulation of Stuff feels necessary.
In some ways, this is the most 19th century part of this so-called "Victorian inspired" fashion-- we accumulate curios, artwork, and trinkets and parade them around on our persons. We are, in many ways, walking cabinets of curiosity, ambulatory displays our showcasing personal histories of item acquisition.
Having an extensive collection on parade is a great spectacle. But what happens when the parade comes to a rest? When I put together a coordinate, do laundry, or shuck off my layers following a meet, the available flat surfaces of the cozy one-bedroom that I share with my partner get an expensive avalanche of clothing and accessories. Outfit planning especially requires careful rummaging and visual layouts, with cleanup deferred to my favorite time, "eventually". Some might call this executive dysfunction. They would be right.
Lolita clutter isn't limited to the existing wardrobe, though. Lolita physical events are often markets, swap meets, fairs, or conventions (with dealer's rooms), and the digital life of the lolita is full of brand websites, online retail, Lacemarket, and shopping chats. The thrill of the chase has always been part of the joy of collecting. Even the most strictly curated lolita wardrobe will grow and change over time, so a spacious storage solution can turn into a impenetrable mess given sufficient budget.
Beyond the physical wardrobe side, though, there's also the virtual clutter of a crowded desktop, my several thousand lolita browser bookmarks, hundreds of unorganized outfit shots on my phone, books and magazines crowding my shelves, and even the cognitive whirl of all the lolita facts in my head.
Lolita, simply put, is a clutter-prone maximalist whirlwind of a fashion, making the perfect storm when swirled together with clutter-prone natural disaster personalities like mine. There's a certain amount of decluttering that can (and should) be done, like sending unworn dresses off to a loving home, organizing accessories in a navigable way, cleaning out duplicate photos, and all of the delicate steps necessary to keep bedrooms from reaching fire hazard status. However, these mitigation strategies just control the most dramatic extent. Nothing can truly stop lolita clutter.
I now live with my partner, who's done more in a matter of weeks to resolve my clutter issues with his natural organizer temperament than I have in decades as a born disorganizer. Even with our combined best efforts, though, focusing on the sterile dream of tidiness is pointless and unhealthy. I live in a nest of wearable wonders, and the sheer density of stories means that my living space will always be crowded. Clutter, in moderation, is a healthy sign of a life lived interestingly, and I'll never be ashamed of that, unless the fire department needs to be called.
No comments:
Post a Comment